


Light Work

by juniper_and_lamplight



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Baking, Birthday, Established Relationship, F/F, Memories, baking as self-care, caramel-based innuendo, recipe included in the notes, references to several other characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-26 15:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniper_and_lamplight/pseuds/juniper_and_lamplight
Summary: Tina had, with her typical blunt insight, poked at Farah’s motivations for baking the cake herself. “Is it some kind of control-freaky thing? Like you can’t trust anyone else to get it right?” And while Farah couldn’t honestly saynoto that question, her real motivation ran deeper.





	Light Work

**Author's Note:**

> While you can read this fic as an unofficial follow-up to [Lattice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16706815) and [ Unimaginable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17118833), it can also be read and understood on its own.  
> Thanks, as ever, to RhondaHurley, for patience, encouragement, and introducing me to chocolate whiskey cake.

The past year had given Farah Black a new appreciation for several things: the use of her own limbs, for instance, unimpeded by injury; the ability to go out in the world undisguised; and the moments when she could rest assured that her loved ones were definitely _not_ kidnapped. 

The thing she appreciated most of all, however, was _calm_. Not that she’d had a lot of calm in her life prior to this year; even in the best of times, the roiling of her own mind inhibited it, like static obscuring a radio signal. But ever since they’d opened the doors of the detective agency, calm was an even rarer commodity. A typical case might involve any number of heretofore impossible occurrences, and while such cases were rarely boring and often rewarding, they were the _opposite_ of calm.

And the situation at home wasn’t much of an improvement, at least not since Tina had moved in. Despite her nearly perpetual state of chill, Tina had an extrovert’s tendency to process things out loud, as well as a penchant for spontaneity that was only _slightly_ less chaotic than Dirk’s. 

All things considered, calm was hard to come by, and Farah had learned to cherish it whenever she could. Which was how she came to be awake early one May morning, contemplating her empty kitchen and trying to let the tranquility seep into her bones.

There was damp chill on the breeze drifting in through the window, but the sunshine that streamed across the clean countertops and wood floors promised warmth to come. The natural light wasn’t quite as bright as Farah would’ve liked for the task at hand, but she couldn’t bring herself to ruin it with the cold efficiency of the overhead; she’d just have to make do. Drawing in a slow, decisive breath, she straightened up from her slouch in the kitchen doorway and grabbed her apron from its hook, wrapping the waist strings loosely around her pajama shirt. Time to get to work.

Her coffee machine’s timer had woken up before she had, and she gratefully poured herself a cup before turning her attention to her ingredients. The butter was already on the countertop, where it had softened overnight; she set the eggs and buttermilk next to it, to let them get a little closer to room temperature. Then she systematically set about collecting the other ingredients, lining them all up in plain sight so that she couldn’t forget anything once she got going. Extracting the bundt pan without causing an unholy clatter proved challenging, nestled as it was inside a cupboard filled with similar pans, but Farah _liked_ challenges, and it would take more than a bit of noise to wake Tina, who slept with complete, enviable abandon. 

Once the bundt pan was safely retrieved, Farah coated its interior in the softened butter, taking the time to ensure that every groove was well-greased. Next came the flour and cocoa powder, silky between her fingers as she sprinkled them over the buttered surface. As she turned and tapped the pan to remove the excess, fine motes of flour caught the slanting sunlight, and in her mind’s eye, she saw— 

_Her grandmother’s hands, age-worn, flour caught in their brown-and-pink creases as she shaped biscuits, each one perfectly uniform._

No matter how much she’d practiced, Farah had never been able to make biscuits like her grandmother’s. The remembered failure wormed in around the edges of her busy contentment, but she did her best to breathe through it, to stay focused on the soothing routine of baking. She was trying—consciously, _laboriously_ trying—to be kinder to herself, lately. Sometimes she even succeeded.

Case in point: this quiet morning of cake-baking. Tina had, with her typical blunt insight, poked at Farah’s motivations for baking the cake herself. “Is it some kind of control-freaky thing? Like you can’t trust anyone else to get it right?” And while Farah couldn’t honestly say _no_ to that question, her real motivation ran deeper. Today was a day when people would _look_ at her, and fuss over her, and expect her to respond in particular ways. Farah knew how lucky she was—incredibly, ridiculously lucky—to have people who cared about her that much, but having so much attention directed at her, all at once? It would be discomfiting, to say the least.

This cake, however, was pure comfort. She’d made it so many times that she didn’t have to worry if it would come out right—it always did. It was like tai chi, or a trip to the shooting range: a source of reassuring competence that elicited a bubble of the calm that so often eluded her. It was a small kindness she gave herself in preparation for the unbelievable—and sometimes _overwhelming_ —kindness of others.

With the dry ingredients whisked together and ready to go, she locked the mixing bowl into her trusty stand mixer. Steel blue and gleaming, it was one of her most treasured possessions, and though she’d stopped short of giving it a name, she still privately thought of it as a friend. The eggs cracked satisfyingly on the edge of the metal bowl, leaving her fingertips tacky with residue. She wiped them on her apron and reached for the carton of buttermilk, now slippery with condensation from the growing warmth in the kitchen. With the mixer whirring low and gentle, she added a cup of buttermilk, and then oil, vanilla, and water. Then she measured out the bourbon, its faint, woody-sweet aroma wafting up as she poured, and with it— 

_Patrick’s hand, with its patina of electrical burns, clutching a delicate glass of amber liquid as they sat side by side, their silence more companionable than any conversation._

Her own hand responded to the memory, involuntarily swirling the bourbon in the measuring cup, releasing more of its subtle scent before she poured it into the mixing bowl. 

Then the batter went into the pan, the pan into the oven, and all the ingredients went back to where she’d found them. She wiped down the mixer the same way she cleaned her guns—methodically, thoroughly, and with an air of purposeful reverence. She was rinsing out the floury dishcloth when her phone pinged with a text. 

She swiped a knuckle across the screen to unlock it, drying her hands on a corner of her apron as she read the message. It was a selfie of Dirk wearing what _had_ to be the most garish lumber jacket in Seattle, or possibly the universe. It was an affront to both good taste and the spring weather, and Dirk looked _delighted_ about it. 

_Dirk: excited about going to the axe-throwing bar today!!!! #elegantlumberman_

Farah had to blink away the searing afterimage of the jacket before tapping out a response. 

_Farah: I can see that! Your jacket’s excitement is practically blinding._

She wondered if Dirk would notice the snarky tone—he didn’t always, in texts, or at least he _acted_ like he didn’t. This time, however, he clearly _did_ , because his response was immediate and indignant. 

_Dirk: I'm telling Mona what you said about her! just as soon as she has ears again_

Farah laughed aloud, the sound bouncing around in the empty room.

 _Farah: She'll take it as a compliment_.

_Dirk: just be glad that Todd convinced her not to be an axe_

_Farah: I AM very glad about that, yes._

There was a pause, and then…

_Dirk: also, speaking of Todd..._

_Dirk: I think maybe he wrote you a song?? and he’s going to play it for you tonight???_

Farah’s thumbs hovered over her keyboard for a moment before she responded.

_Farah: What makes you think that?_

_Dirk: he's been very cagey lately_

_Farah: And that’s unusual how?_

_Dirk: cagier than typical Todd-cagey!!_

_Dirk: I can hear him playing his guitar in the living room on nights when he comes to bed late and when I ask what he was playing he dodges the question_

_Dirk: AND he’s been scribbling in a notebook but he won’t let me see what he’s writing_

_Dirk: also he just now put his guitar in a gig bag so he can take it to the post-axe gathering at your place_

Farah blinked at her phone again, her skepticism crumbling. The idea of Todd not only writing something for her, but playing it _in front of people_...well. Farah knew that while she’d spent the past year chipping away at her calcified self-confidence and self-acceptance, Todd had been laboring in his own emotional salt mines. She’d seen his sharp edges soften, his morose disaffection fall away, and yet she was still dumbfounded by the thought of him putting his feelings on display for _her_. She wondered if she’d ever stop being astonished by these people who’d decided, despite all evidence to the contrary, that she was worth caring about. 

She still hadn’t managed to type anything, though, and apparently Dirk had taken her silence for discomfort, because he barrelled onwards.

_Dirk: I’m sure it’ll be a fantastic song, at least by Todd-music standards, but I wanted to warn you b/c I know you don't like surprises_

_Dirk: esp FEELINGS surprises_

_Dirk: we wouldn't want you to CRY or anything_

Dirk’s sense of text-based snarkiness was clearly improving.

 _Farah: I won’t cry._ (She absolutely would.) 

_Dirk: of course you won’t_ (This was followed by several eyeroll emojis.) 

_Farah: GOODBYE DIRK._

_Dirk: see you later for AXES!!!_

There were still thirty minutes left on the timer for the cake, which Farah took as a license to scroll through her news feed and alerts, checking for anything that might be relevant to the agency's motley collection of ongoing investigations. She wasn't supposed to be working, but uncanny happenings didn't respect things like vacation days or personal milestones. Although maybe this time, the universe was giving them a break, because the news was almost comically mundane. As the oven timer ran down, Farah collected the ingredients for the final part of the recipe: sugar, water, cream of tartar, heavy cream, and more butter. 

She poured the first few ingredients into a saucepan and set it on the stovetop, flicking on the gas burner with its dependable _pop-pop-whoosh_. After letting the mixture boil and then cook for a couple of minutes, she removed the saucepan lid and planted herself in front of the stove, silicone spatula in hand. This was the trickiest part, watching and waiting for the caramelization to begin. The temptation to stir, to do _something_ besides passively observe, was strong, but she knew what would happen if she disrupted the process too early. When the mixture finally, _finally_ took on a translucent amber hue, she dove in with her spatula, and— 

_Lydia, a spatula in her sticky hand, scraping the last vestiges of brownie batter from a mixing bowl and forgetting, temporarily, that she was thirteen years old and too cool to get chocolate all over her face._

The memory brought a smile to Farah's own face, and she recalled with fondness (and only mild trepidation) the package that Lydia had sent to her, marked with “DO NOT OPEN until May 30!!!” in bold letters, and the words “that means you too Tina” scrawled underneath. Now that the day had arrived, Farah itched to open the package, but she’d wait until the caramel sauce was done and the cake was safely cooling.

She traded her spatula for a whisk and gradually added the cream and butter to the caramel mixture, watching the frenzied bubbling that resulted and inhaling the rich, nutty scent. The bubbles were just beginning to die down when Tina shuffled into the kitchen.

She was in typical morning-Tina mode: squinty-eyed, bare-legged, her hair a thicket of tangles, one shoulder poking out from the overstretched collar of her old band t-shirt. She headed toward the coffee machine on groggy autopilot, but then she sniffed the air, shoved the hair out of her face, and zeroed in on Farah.

“Ohhhh my godddd what is _that_?” She drifted closer to Farah’s post in front of the stove. “It smells like...sex and magic and happiness?”

“Does it?” said Farah, feigning thoughtfulness as she whisked. “The way I remember it, sex and magic smelled like sweat and body glitter and Hobbs’ old varsity jacket.”

Tina huffed softly and leaned in to nuzzle at Farah's neck. “So this is for your cake?”

“Mmm-hmm. Caramel sauce."

Tina hooked her chin over Farah’s shoulder, crowding up hot and close against her back. “I can think of four—no, _seven_ —better uses for that caramel sauce, and most of them involve ruining the sheets. Or the couch. Possibly this kitchen counter.”

A sudden barrage of steamy, stickymental images threw Farah off her whisking, sending a flush spreading up her neck and face. But the caramel would burn if she left it on the heat any longer, so she resolved to make the sauce again, some other day—a day when they _weren’t_ having guests over. Then she set the whisk aside and reluctantly disentangled herself from a grumbling Tina.

Once the saucepan was placed on the waiting wooden trivet, Farah turned away momentarily to set a phone reminder—she’d have to add the bourbon to the sauce before the caramel cooled. The entire action took less than thirty seconds, yet when she looked back, there was Tina, slinking toward the saucepan with an inquisitive, outstretched finger. Farah’s hand darted out to catch Tina’s before she could dip it into the molten mixture.

“Heyyyy!” Tina protested. 

Farah shrugged, unapologetic. “I have a vested interest in your fingers." Realizing how prurient that sounded, she cleared her throat. "And also you. Um, in general.” God, _this_ was why she didn’t talk about feelings. “I mean—I care about your general well-being, up to and including you _not_ being burnt. Or otherwise injured. Or upset. Or—yeah, I’m going to stop talking now.” 

"Awww, you old honey-dripper." Tina's eyes sparkled at her, then darted to the clock on the coffee machine. "Oh shit, is that the actual time? Hobbs is arriving in like..." She rolled her eyes up in her head and started counting on her fingers.

Farah took pity on her. "He'll be here in about an hour—you have plenty of time to get ready. And anyway, Hobbs has seen you in _much_ worse condition than just pantsless and messy-haired.”

"Ain’t that the truth." Tina poured herself a cup of coffee and leaned back against the counter. "Sooooo...big day. How’re you feeling? Any freaking out? Because you know it's not too late to cancel the axe-throwing party and just Ron Swanson this shit—you, a quiet room, a comfy chair, and..." Tina's gaze fell on the bottle still sitting on the counter. "Well, I guess you've already started on the whiskey." Farah opened her mouth to explain, but Tina continued. "I know you _like_ being super low-key about it, but...wasn't this kind of a sad way to start your birthday? Up early, baking your own cake, _alone_?”

Farah wished, not for the first time, that she could develop telepathy just by trying hard enough, because then she wouldn’t have to use words—she could simply nudge her own sense-memories directly into Tina’s mind, could _show_ her how many hands had helped to bake this birthday cake. Things being as they were, however, she settled for shaking her head and taking both of Tina’s hands in her own. 

_Tina’s hands, with their expressive fingers and short-bitten nails, so solid and prosaic, as if their owner’s ongoing presence wasn’t a daily surprise—the only kind of surprise Farah wanted to keep having._

Farah threaded their fingers together and stepped in close, gently pinning Tina against the counter. She felt the mid-morning sun hot on her neck, the kitchen floor solid beneath her feet, and Tina’s mouth coffee-warm beneath her own. Farah gave both hands a lingering squeeze before stepping back to look Tina square in the eyes. “There’s no _way_ I’m canceling the party. I’m going to show you all a thing or two about throwing axes. Prepare to be _owned_.”

Tina’s laugh overlapped with the sound of the oven timer. 

The cake, when Farah finally turned it out of the pan, was perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Farah Adrienne Black deserves love, respect, and cake, on her birthday & every day.
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this even a little, please let me know--kudos or comments (however brief or keysmashy) will be appreciated and treasured. Feel free to [find me on Tumblr](https://juniper-and-lamplight.tumblr.com/) for further Farah feelings and DGHDA love.
> 
> If you'd like to see the follow-through for the caramel-based innuendo in this fic, check out the (explicit) sequel, [Simmering](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21507778).
> 
> P.S. [The cake that Farah bakes is real](https://www.loveandoliveoil.com/2014/01/chocolate-whiskey-bundt-cake-with-whiskey-caramel-sauce.html) and it’s _delicious_.


End file.
